


Honey Trap

by charcoane



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s02e07 Yakimono
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29127372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoane/pseuds/charcoane
Summary: “I won’t lie,” Jack begins when they're safely out of earshot and tucked up against the car, Jack smoothing leather gloves over his hands and Will raising his collar to thwart off the cold. “That right there answered a lot of questions I didn’t know I had.”“It’s not part of the plan, Jack,” Will reminds him, still feeling the touch of Hannibal’s lips against his skin, his breath warming the back of Will's hand.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 34
Kudos: 200





	1. Chapter 1

In hindsight, Will really should have seen it coming. There’d been flags, big red flags: Hannibal guiding Will into his kitchen and office at any hour of any day, Will wound tight and aching and swaying between frenzied and catatonic, Hannibal endlessly enduring and permissive, cupping a hand around Will’s shoulder, bracing Will with a steadying hand low on his back, pouring Will into _Hannibal’s chair_ , behind _Hannibal’s desk_. All liberties Hannibal would have never allowed others or else suffered through with pinched lips and shuttered eyes, waiting the amount of time it would take people to finally place that phone call and inquire after a first date before Hannibal sheathed himself from neck to feet in plastic, classical music stored in his car and cooking recipe in his mind — the former to gut to, the latter a civilised and cultured means to consume his kill.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Will, when him and Jack had brought Hannibal their caught trout, Hannibal’s eyes gleaming and pleased before he graciously ushered them both in for dinner — Hannibal had taken both Will’s and Jack’s coats, but he’d pulled out only Will’s seat, served dinner to Will first. They’d all three settled their numerous small betrayals against each other at that table, clinking glasses to ring in a fresh start: Jack and Hannibal impersonal and cordial, Jack and Will subdued and conspiratorial, Will and Hannibal simmering with too many shared experiences and withheld truths and banked emotions for Will to boil them down to any distinct classification. Will had gorged down the trout to its scales and fins and even its eyes, had held Hannibal’s lingering gaze and raised his glass for all additionally proffered sloshes of liquor, then his plate for leftover scraps — sweetly trusting, attentive. Him and Jack had taken their leave and Hannibal had picked up Will’s coat, held it open for Will to slide his arms into. He’d nodded goodbye to Jack, coiled his larger hand around Will’s and accepted Will’s impromptu — and all the more stiff and cold for it — hand-shake.

And then, well. Then Hannibal had lifted Will’s hand to his lips, brushed a tender kiss across his knuckles. 

* * *

“I won’t lie,” Jack begins when they're safely out of earshot and tucked up against the car, Jack smoothing leather gloves over his hands and Will raising his collar to thwart off the cold. “That right there answered a lot of questions I didn’t know I had.”

“It’s not part of the plan, Jack,” Will reminds him, still feeling the touch of Hannibal’s mouth against his skin, his breath warming the back of Will's hand.

“Isn’t it?” Jack asks mildly, all wide-eyed and fake ignorance, and then, seeing the mute wonder and confusion freezing Will in place, says, “Will. Hey, Will. You’re not to do anything you don't want to do, you hear?”

“Right,” Will murmurs, his lips gone numb.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Jack reassures him, folding his gloved hand over Will’s shoulder, and that’s a lie, of course.

* * *

Hannibal presses his palm over the throat of Will’s gun, disarming it, and then he cups his hand around the side of Will’s face, his fingers clasping the back of Will’s neck. He says, rough and intimate like he's confessing to a secret, “I could never entirely predict you,” and tows him in for a kiss — Will's eyes open and at a loss, Hannibal's half-lidded and so thoroughly awed Will can taste it on his lips. 

* * *

It occurs to Will — moving around yet another crime scene with vacant eyes and his arms slack at his sides — that from Hannibal’s perspective, him and Will might as well have been engaged in a prolonged form of foreplay: Will in his somber and form-fitting clothes, his dark hair untangled and carded out of his eyes to flaunt the sharp curves of his face; Hannibal across from him in the chair, one leg folded neatly over the other and affecting cold detachment. Hannibal would be utterly remote and inert aside from the motion of his mouth, the flick of his eyes — serene and unwavering and yet snagging on Will’s undone collar, the long stretch of his throat. The only times Will would see Hannibal’s eyes flare imperceptibly wider and brighter was whenever Will bothered to unclench his hands and jaw and husk out murderous compulsions, and Will had been careful not to lower his eyes and follow the words as they sank all the way down to the bottom of Hannibal’s gut.

Hannibal — for a change gratifyingly helpless to the demands of his own body and mind — could never not ask, eager, if Will was still fantasizing about killing him, if these fantasies were bringing him pleasure. Will, deadly honest, would choke out an affirmative and then watch as Hannibal’s chest rose, listen to the whisper of Hannibal’s suit pants as his legs shifted. The climax, Will knows, would be reached through shared killing, but they’re still solidly at second base when Will drapes Randall Tier’s mangled, rigid corpse over Hannibal’s dinner table, Hannibal heavy-lidded and tending to Will’s split knuckles with the utmost tenderness, hovering close and sharing warmth and pressing a fond kiss to Will’s cold, taut cheek. 

* * *

Alana, fiercely protective of Will and Hannibal both, decides to interrogate them over dinner, Will picking at his food and idly wondering whether he’s eating Randall Tier, Hannibal battling down amusement and overseeing Will and Alana’s restrained back-and-forth over the rim of his plate. Will manages to stretch his lips into a good-natured smile and force down every morsel of meat past his tight throat, but that’s his limit reached: he bids goodbye to Alana and Hannibal and tugs his coat off the hanger, shoves his arms into the sleeves just as Hannibal’s rounding the corner. Hannibal stalks close and reaches out to adjust Will's lapels, to proprietarily smooth his palms down Will’s arms.

“You don’t have to leave, Will,” Hannibal tells him, gently appeasing, and then he cups his hand around Will’s cheek, murmurs, “I can send her home.”

Will can tell Hannibal wants to take him to bed: his other hand snakes around Will’s waist to settle low on his back, the hand on Will’s face tipping his chin up, trying to coax eye-contact. This is all new to Will: he’s used to women luring him into bed — a hand high on Will’s thigh, fingers curling around his wrist to tug it towards their tit. Hannibal’s all solid muscle and masculine and a hair’s breadth taller than Will, the broad span of his shoulders trying to cage Will in, and Will, losing his nerve, improvises: sways close, brushes his mouth over Hannibal’s smooth-shaven cheek. He says — quietly, so Alana doesn't hear — “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Lecter,” patting the small of Hannibal’s back, and takes his leave without a backwards glance.

* * *

Later, after Alana’s eyes have swept back open and Hannibal’s taken it upon himself to handfeed Will his latest spoils, Will’s going to be able to spew all sorts of excuses: he’d never been with a man before and he figured he should at least get some practice before going to bed with a cannibal serial killer — because that’s undoubtedly where him and Hannibal are headed; he didn’t know how to feel about being deflowered by said cannibal serial killer, which is a defence that the common individual can surely empathize with. And so he’d gone out and come back home with an attractive stranger, and they’d fumbled their way through a fairly awkward but ultimately satisfying first time — Will being told to move his tongue and throat around another man’s cock just so — before black night bled into orange dawn and finally into pale blue morning. 

Now Will’s stumbling out of his bed in only his underwear and a flimsy shirt, and staring him down just beyond his door, citing concern and bearing the tagalong in the appeasing form of a dog, is Alana. Which is fine, Will had known she wasn’t done with him yet — even more so now, listening to Freddie Lounds’ choked off shrieks pouring out of Jack’s phone. What is not fine, and freezing over Will’s lungs and extremities faster than the frosted chill of winter ever could, is that standing just beyond Alana — his eyes narrowing and flitting down to the soaked neck of Will’s shirt, then up into Will’s increasingly horrified eyes — is Hannibal: cool and detached and frowning ever so slightly at Will’s bare feet, so carelessly exposed to the cold. 

“This is a bad time,” Will says — desperately to Hannibal, appealingly to Alana. Beyond Will’s shoulder, in the corner of his bedroom, Will can make out the rustle of clothes, pants sliding over legs and feet jamming into shoes. Will’s heart is beating out of his damn chest, and then he feels the warmth of this easy, undemanding stranger against his side, pressing a kiss to Will’s cheek, saying, “Don’t you _dare_ lose my number, alright? I’ll see you.”

But Will never does see him again, because whatever little humanity Hannibal is pretending to have is leaching away from his face, skin stretching tight over bones and shadows flooding the hollows. Hannibal's regressed to knee-jerk instinct, and he doesn't hesitate: Will watches his eyes empty, his hands coiling viper fast around Alana’s neck and knocking her out. It takes Will lunging forwards and folding his arms around Alana, lowering her gently to the ground, for Hannibal to catch up to Will’s one night stand — because that’s all that poor guy was, God rest his soul — and cheerfully calling for his attention, stalking forward and lodging the blade of his knife into the base of the man's throat.

Hannibal tears him open, throat to chest, cutting through bone and muscle and cartilage, his shoulders heaving. Will is momentarily amazed by his own tolerance for such flagrant and loud violence: he watches, sweat-soaked and snow white, as Hannibal takes down his prey — this man who’d touched his lips to Will’s skin and warmed him through with the touch of his hand — and guts him, cracks him open and lifts his own torso away to observe the warm outpouring of blood: a pulsing flood that spills out over the man’s sides and soaks the ground around them, leaving behind the steadily dilating imprint of a bloody snow angel.

By the time Will realizes he’s moved, bare feet trudging through the snow, he’s already come to a stop beside Hannibal, touching his fingers to Hannibal’s shoulder — to this thing that’s more animal than human, Hannibal's arm still lashing tirelessly, his muscles taut and veins protruding.

“Hannibal,” Will murmurs faintly, all vacant stillness, and Hannibal releases a gust of air through jagged teeth, blows his undone hair out of his eyes. He huffs out, “Just a moment, dear,” and his arm comes down, savage and staking his claim.

Will’s lashes sweep down, his eyes closing, and he listens to Hannibal climb to his feet, opens his eyes to watch him peel off his blood-soaked gloves. Hannibal is a picture of self-possession and deadly calm, his expression bland and indifferent, but Will can see the blood pulsing hot and violent underneath his skin — Hannibal’s eyes dark and gleaming, his veins stark and bulging in his temples.

He prowls towards Will, smooths his tongue over his own teeth — sharper than Will remembers them, than Will’s ever seen them. Hannibal reaches around Will and shoves his bare hand down the back of Will’s boxers — Will lifting up onto his toes and gasping hot and outraged across Hannibal’s face when he feels two fingers jam inside, probing. Hannibal holds Will’s gaze: glacial, emotionless, harrowed.

“Do I pass inspection, doctor?” Will gnashes out, hissing the words against Hannibal’s closed mouth.

“I haven’t gutted you yet, have I?” is all Hannibal says to that, rasping, and politely removes his hand, lets it fall to his side. 

Will can’t help it, he yells, “That’s _your lover_ unconscious on my porch!”

“Yes, and you had better displace her,” Hannibal returns, drawing back and contemplating the carnage he’s left behind in front of Will’s door.

Will swallows down all sorts of colorful and hurtful curses in response to _that_ before he hurries back inside, swathing his limbs in last night's clothes and hauling Alana up into his arms. He sweeps past Hannibal, scowling, and makes for the car.

* * *

“That guard you sent to kill me,” Hannibal speaks up an indeterminate amount of time later, idly rapping the ballpoint tip of his pen against a blank page in his journal. 

“You think I'm a slut now, don't you,” Will says.

“Are you?” Hannibal asks. 

Will, feeling vengeful, balls up one of Hannibal's sketches and tosses it into the fire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alana's fine, FYI.


	2. Chapter 2

“I quite liked that one,” Hannibal says mildly, as close to a verbal complaint as Will’s ever heard him come. Hannibal watches the fire lick along the edges of the sketch and eat inwards towards the center, the cream white of the paper charring and curling and melting, and then his gaze slides sideways to Will, lights on the side of Will’s face.

Will feels the heat of Hannibal’s gaze burn across his face and throat warmer than the open fire ever could; he feeds more of Hannibal’s notes on him into the flames, his hands steady, at ease.

I quite liked my sanity, Will doesn’t say. I liked my date alive, and not scattered all over my front yard, his blood fertilizing the soil.

He steps back towards the table, feeling Hannibal unobtrusive and calm at his back, his fancy shoes clicking across the floor as he joins Will, comes to stand by his side once more.

“You’ve yet to answer my question,” Hannibal prods him gently.

“What question was that?” Will bites out, Hannibal’s eyes flitting to Will’s jaw: sharp and rigid, chewing through the words. “Did I sleep with the psychopathic guard, knowing that Chilton was lurking in the corner and watching?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees Hannibal turn, lowering himself down and settling on the edge of the desk, neatly folding his hands in his lap.

“You make it sound,” Hannibal says, slow and measured, “as though you would have considered it, had Chilton’s omniscient presence allowed for it.”

Will’s eyes slide shut, his lashes sweeping down. Hannibal’s gaze is trained forward, Will knows, the heat of the flames pooling in the black of his pupils, and Will wonders at that: Will is close and motionless, every inch of him on display and warmed and illuminated by the fire, and yet Hannibal isn’t looking him over, isn’t memorizing all those curves and shadows and hollows. Hannibal’s regard has always been frank, ravenous: any opportunity to just look was exploited, all subsequent input hoarded and stored in his memory palace.

Now, however, Hannibal seems to be otherwise occupied. Him and Will are both held in place by that same violent anger, rigid with routinely exerted restraint. They're pressed together hip to hip, facing opposite directions — Hannibal staring into the hot fire, Will turned towards the cold hard wall — and finally, Will breaks: his eyes fluttering open, his breath leaking out between parted lips. He turns to face Hannibal, and Hannibal, hungry for eye contact, meets him halfway. His expression is bland, smooth and cold like polished stone.

Will cups his hand around Hannibal’s neck, smooths his thumb over his carotid artery. He finds, with little to no surprise, that Hannibal’s skin is fever hot, the pulse underneath throbbing hard and fast.

Will asks, “Who put me there?” enunciating slow and clearly, feeling Hannibal’s throat bob underneath his hand.

“Who put me there and gave him access to me?” he presses.

“Is this a confession?” Hannibal demands, his voice low and his eyes intent, and Will — dispassionate, something like disgust plucking at his face — drops his hand from Hannibal’s neck, draws closer to the warmth of the fire.

Will hears Hannibal stand, and then it's Hannibal's turn to close his hand around Will's throat, pull Will backwards against his chest.

“You’re indifferent to the devotion you inspire in others,” Hannibal states, saying it into Will’s ear — his breath humid and warm against Will's skin. “He killed for you. He would have killed me, for you.”

“I knew he wouldn’t succeed,” Will admits, and Hannibal presses his lips to Will’s throat — as if in reward.

“The same way you thought Mason Verger wouldn’t succeed,” Hannibal surmises, and hooks his fingers in the collar of Will’s shirt. Will — who’s by now completely attuned to Hannibal — obligingly reaches up to unbutton his shirt to his navel, shrugging it off his shoulders and helping Hannibal along, allowing Hannibal’s greedy mouth and teeth to close around that muscled mound where Will's shoulder meets his bicep. Hannibal makes Will wince and bruise and then he turns Will around, obviously meaning to go for Will’s mouth next.

Will beats him to it: impatient and bristling and contrary, putting his hand to the side of Hannibal’s face to hold his jaw still. For once Will is the one to lean in and seize Hannibal’s mouth in a kiss, and it’s the same kiss Will had bestowed on Alana, on Margot — honest and searing and devouring, Will burrowing close and eating Hannibal’s mouth, softly cupping Hannibal’s face in his hands and even still pressing for more. It had made Alana whimper against Will’s lips, Margot reach down for Will’s belt. Hannibal it only renders immobile, his lips wet and his jaw opening wider and wider so Will can continue to take — Hannibal making hoarse little noises in the back of his throat, feeding them into Will’s hot, busy mouth.

At this point Will would always trust his female partners to draw back, slow the pace, pressing soothing kisses to Will’s lips and face and reaching down to guide his cock into their cunt — but then Will knows better than to expect restraint from Hannibal. Hannibal’s covetous and self-indulgent and he wants everything all at once, gratefully leaning into the hot smear of Will’s mouth, tugging Will’s pants down so he can slap at the naked mound of Will’s ass — a saucy swat that heaves Will up on his toes and lights up his nerves, stinging hot across his skin and pooling warm in his gut.

“Jesus, baby,” falls out of Will’s mouth, arousal seeping in fast and heavy and making him stupid, blunt. Hannibal’s lips peel back over his teeth — uncouth and uninhibited, so overcome it’s making him angry. Will lets Hannibal pull his pants the rest of the way down his thighs, quietly amused at the way Hannibal’s obviously wrestling for some control, trying to mess Will up — dragging down Will's underwear and baring the swaying jut of Will’s cock to both their eyes, obscene and alarming in the somber darkness of Hannibal's office, suspended against Will’s flawless and smooth _everything._

Then Hannibal licks over his own palm and closes it around Will’s cock, jacking him rough and fast, pulling low, rugged moans out of Will's throat. Will's hands curl around Hannibal's strong shoulders, his thighs starting to tremble. He lifts his gaze to Hannibal's face — feeling needy and helpless, almost there — and Hannibal’s eyes are so focused and fervid they're almost spilling over, gleaming fever hot and menacing in the gloom of the evening.

* * *

They take it slow, at first. Hannibal won’t fuck Will in his office or at his dinner table or in the master bedroom he frequently guides Alana into, but then he drives Will back to Wolf Trap and bears him down onto the dingy sheets, looming over Will and pressing kisses to his mouth — tireless, purposeful. Will tries hard not to look at it as a reclaiming, Hannibal threading his fingers through Will’s hair and nosing into the hollows of Will’s cheeks, brushing his lips across the sharp arc of Will's jawline. 

“You’re — what was it you called Alana? Very kissable,” Hannibal rasps at him, and snakes his leg between Will’s thighs. Will had expected to be manhandled into the receiving position, but that doesn’t make this any less strange, or Will any less reluctant — rolling onto his side so Hannibal can hitch up Will’s knee, press a spit coated finger to the tight furl of Will’s hole and rub over him soothingly. 

“That’s not going to cut it,” Will gasps, rigid and dry and twitching against Hannibal's firm, inherently clinical touch. Hannibal’s other hand is sprawled across Will’s hipbone, holding Will in place, steady.

“Do you want my mouth?” Hannibal asks him, as easily as he’d offered Will anything else: a seat by Hannibal’s side at his dinner parties, on one of the barstools in Hannibal’s kitchen in the small hours of the morning.

Will shivers, a rippling jolt that goes all the way down to his toes, and murmurs, “Not yet.”

For now he allows Hannibal to sink in his knuckle, Will lifting up onto his elbow and seizing when Hannibal rubs into him slow and thorough and searching. Hannibal presses in so deep it makes Will hurt and squirm, gasping high in his throat, and even then Hannibal doesn't relent, only murmurs vague encouragement into Will’s ear. Before long he feeds two and then three fingers into Will, turning Will over onto his chest and perching over the swell of Will’s ass, mounting him with all the grace and patience Will's dogs would each other during a heat.

What follows is the sort of rough, nasty fucking Will normally associates with a hurried quickie in a public bathroom stall, or the furtive and frantic coupling of freshly-baked parents before the kids wake up: Hannibal’s giving it to Will hard and good, like he'd been gagging to for fucking months, and his teeth are bared against Will’s throat while Will grinds out breathless, distressed whimpers. Will reaches behind him to peel down Hannibal’s dress pants over his balls, so he can feel the wet smack of them against his own — loving the feel of being rocked, being broken in, Hannibal's hips jerking into him so hungrily Will’s eyes are watering, his nails raking appreciative scratches across the clenched muscles of Hannibal's ass and thighs. 

He doesn’t stop Hannibal even when he feels Hannibal’s hand reach down between Will's legs, cupping his sex — the way Will knows Hannibal would press his fingers to the slick mound of a woman's cunt, finishing her off. Soon Will sees black antlers rise above the bed, hovering triumphantly over Will’s shoulders, and still Will won’t breathe a word that’s not _yes_ or _Hannibal_ or _don’t stop_.

* * *

Will wakes up sore and cold and heavy-lidded, turning his stiff neck to where his stag is standing impatiently by the open door, hooves clicking across the wood and antlered head gesturing towards the trees. Will rises from the bed as if lifted, pulling a dark coat around his bare shoulders and stray jeans over his naked legs, hastily tucking his feet into his untied boots by the door.

The cold goes immediately for Will's throat and washes through his lungs, making his chest ache. Wet frost gathers in his eyelashes and he blinks it away, meandering uphill into the grove. His stag hasn’t paid him a visit in a long time, and it’s certainly never asked him to follow along quite so urgently, turning its antlered head to watch Will’s procession and evidently finding him lacking, stomping its hooves.

“Easy,” Will tells it, instinctive. He’s struck with the odd urge to press his palm to the flat fur between the stag’s eyes, hushing and gentling it like one would a horse.

The stag passes by a rather large, sprawling tree, lowering its head and heaving densely leafed branches to the side with its sturdily boned antlers. Then it stops in its tracks, looks back to Will. It inclines its head, dignified and unhurried all over again — as if beckoning Will inside, into the black mouth of a cave.

Will blinks. He obediently ducks through, his boots crunching through the snow, and there’s a boy squatting in the cold. He looks heart-wrenchingly exposed and forsaken amongst all those dark, dormant trees, sitting pressed up against the bark of a trunk with his arms wound tight around his ribs and his legs drawn up against his chest. When he sees Will he uncoils, the whine that's leaching through his teeth matching the howl of the wind as it tears through the trembling guts of the trees. 

“Hannibal,” Will calls out, urgent and scolding — because Will's very clearly gone _insane_ — and stalks forward to tuck the boy into his coat. 

* * *

Will steps through the front door feeling like he’s stepped out of a dream. Adult Hannibal is sitting on Will’s bed, his eyes two vacant pools and his feet bare against the wooden floorboards — uncarpeted, because Will doesn’t see the benefit in carpets when he has half a dozen excessively shedding dogs to clean up after.

“Will,” says Hannibal, hoarse. Will can’t read his voice, but whatever it _is_ he hears has Will torn between wanting to start the coffee machine and cupping Hannibal’s feet in his hands to warm them. Not that it would do any good: Will’s hands are rough, icy. 

“Where have you been?” Hannibal asks him, all dampened and muted. 

Will tells him, halting and sleep-soaked, his hands and feet and face only just thawing. There’d been a stag, Will tells Hannibal — toneless, trying to gauge his own madness by reading Hannibal’s reaction. Will had followed it into the woods. The stag had led him to a boy.

“It was you,” Will tells him, and sees Hannibal’s face crack open, his eyes widening imperceptibly. Hannibal rises to his feet, slow and automatic, like he’s moving through a dream of his own. Will looks down and says, “I tucked him away inside my coat,” vaguely nonplussed, dropping the words by his feet — idle, forceless.

He raises his gaze when he senses Hannibal pressing close, crowding Will like he’s afraid Will is about to bolt — like Will's about to turn on his heel and disappear back into the uncivilized and unprejudiced safety of the wilderness, Hannibal keeping his arms steeled so he can fold them around Will just in time, hold him in place. 

“Well,” says Hannibal, his eyes flicking to Will’s chest. “There’s certainly _something_ inside your coat.”

Will doesn’t follow until he does. Now that his blood’s warmed and his mind's sharpened he realizes he has his arm curved around something precious and fragile, held together by muscle and sinew and bone, swollen heart pulsing and breath releasing. He tugs the collar of his coat away from his throat so he can peer down and inside, and finds nestled against his naked chest not a human boy but a _fawn_ : eyes wet and round like eggs, all soft brown fur and protruding spine and frail limbs, meagre and trembling and pressed up warm and grateful against Will.

“Oh no,” Will hears himself whisper, dim and stricken. 

“Will,” Hannibal says to him solemnly, once he leans in close and sees for himself. “Rest assured that if I had anything short of inhuman self control, I would be _swooning_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! Thank you all so much for reading and leaving feedback, I appreciate it more than I can say.


End file.
